


Christmas Moon

by Venivincere



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Christmas feel-good, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:03:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venivincere/pseuds/Venivincere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has never had a white Christmas. Never seen snow, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [collie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/collie/gifts).



> This is an apology fic written for Collie, because I was mean and teased her with evil snow. I had to make it better. Collie, I hope this does the trick and that you'll forgive me for teasing you. Merry Christmas. <3

 

 

"So, big guy, what are you doing for the holidays?"

Derek looks up from his cards, then back down, then folds. He's got nothing. "I -- wasn't planning on doing anything, actually. Why?"

Stiles stares at him for three whole seconds, throws his cards down on top of Derek's, and leans back on the couch. "Dude, that's just pathetic."

Derek rolls his eyes. "Thanks, Stiles. It's so nice to have someone qualified judging my every life choice."

It's Stiles' turn to roll his eyes. "No -- you know what? Never mind." He levers himself over the back of the couch and disappears in the Stilinski kitchen. He doesn't come back out.

Derek sighs, and follows him in.

Stiles is at the sink, fiddling with the tap.

"I'm sorry," says Derek. He's not quite sure what for, but he's learned that if he means it, Stiles knows. "What's eating you?"

"Here," says Stiles, handing Derek a glass of water. He grabs another out of the cupboard next to the sink and fills one for himself. "It's my dad. He has to work the whole holiday. Again. Twenty eight hour shift, Christmas Eve afternoon through Christmas night. I just thought… since it's my last Christmas living at home…"

"Ah." Derek gets it. He _really_ gets it. 

They slouch back into the living room. Derek stands next to the couch where Stiles was sitting. Stiles goes to the front window and looks out for a minute, then fiddles with the decorations on the window sill. There are caroler figurines, each dressed in Victorian winter weather clothes, holding miniature sheet music that's really music. There's a lamp post next to them with a light that actually lights up, and they're standing on cotton wool snow. If he lets his eyes focus on them, tunes everything else out, they almost look real.

"You know, I've never even seen real snow?" Stiles pokes his finger in the cotton. 

"It snows here, sometimes."

"But nothing sticks, really. Maybe we get a dusting, or something. I mean real snow, like skiing snow, or snow you have to wear boots in. Snow you make snow angels out of. Snowmen. Hell, even a snowball. _That_ kind of snow." He pushes the cotton back in place and sits back down on the couch.

"Oh," says Derek. He doesn't know what to say to that. Every Christmas moon, his family would run up Mount Shasta, grey shadows against the moon-bright snow, and howl. He remembers hunting as a pack, remembers roughhousing with his siblings, rubbing his face in the snow and licking it off his nose. He remembers thick musty fur, piling together afterwards, napping in the waning light. He remembers running back down with them in the last of the moonlight as the sun chased it over the horizon. 

Mostly, he remembers _magic_. The Christmas moons glowed with magic, the crystaline snow sparkled with magic. _Christmas_ was magic.

"Have you ever had a white Christmas?"

Derek swallows; swallows again, and breathes, "Yes."

Stiles looks up, sharp. "Hey. Come here." He pats the couch beside him.

Derek sits. Stiles leans into him just the tiniest bit, just enough for Derek to feel the heat of him from shoulder to thigh. "Come over Christmas Eve."

Derek sees how that might go in his mind, looks at the carolers, and an idea flashes into his head. It's crazy. Maybe it's stupid. It's definitely a risk. But he thinks it's one he might be ready to take. "Actually, come to mine?"

He can't help a small smile curving at the edges of his lips.

Stiles looks at him, eyes narrowed, and then his eyebrows go up and his mouth opens-- "Okay."

::-------------------------------------::

Stiles gets to Derek's at 6 PM Christmas Eve. It's already dark, but the sky is crystaline clear and the moon is a day off the full. Derek opens the steel door to the loft and hands Stiles a huge duffel bag. 

"Here, this is the last of it," he says, and picks up the heavy covered basket next to him. "Let's go."

Stiles' jaw drops. "Uh… where--"

"You'll see."

Stiles follows Derek down to his Toyota. He notices the back is packed full. Curiouser and curiouser. He wrestles the duffel bag into the back seat and Derek sets the basket next to it and straps it in, like a kid.

"What…"

"Just get in the car, Stiles."

Okay, then. Stiles gets in, buckles up, and then they're on the road. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me where--"

"No," says Derek. 

Stiles hears something in Derek's voice, is that a -- a _smile_ \-- he whips his head around and yes, Derek is actually smiling.

"You'll find out when we get there."

"Can I ask when that will be?"

"About an hour," says Derek, still smiling.

Stiles is starting to feel just the slightest bit unnerved. So he does what he always does to avoid something he doesn't want to think about: he falls asleep.

 

"Rise and shine, sleepy head."

There's something soft brushing his cheek but it's gone by the time he opens his eyes.

"We're here."

Stiles looks out at a vast, moonlit parking lot, deserted on this day at this time of night. He steps out of the car and shivers. There's snow everywhere, glowing in the moonlight. And in front of him is a mountain. He looks at Derek, confused. "What."

"Here. Put this on." Derek's got the duffel bag open and he's holding out an actual, honest to God _winter parka_ , complete with fur-lined hood. Stiles takes it. "These, too."

'These' turn out to be snowpants. "Derek, I know you have superpowers, but dude, I most definitely do not. There's no way I ca--"

"Stiles." Derek's stopped dead, and he's looking at Stiles like he's amazing, or something. Stiles has never been looked at like that by Derek. He hasn't been looked at like that since -- well, since his mom.

Stiles gulps. "Dude, this is getting weird. Just tell me what's going on."

Derek opens the hatch at the back of the Toyota and pulls out… a dog sled. Except, it's not really a dog sled, there's no place to stand, but there is a sort of cockpit to sit in. It's more like a miniature sleigh. He hauls it over to the snow at the edge of the parking lot and plunks it down as though it weighs nothing.

"We're going for a ride," says Derek. "Get dressed."

The sleigh turns out to be big enough to fit Stiles, even after the heavy basket and another giant duffel that Stiles can barely lift go in. Derek thought of everything: parka, snow pants, thick, wool socks, warm, sturdy boots, a sheepskin cap with earflaps, a fleece neck gaiter, and toasty, long-cuffed gloves. By the time he's got them all on and his own outerwear and shoes stowed in the Toyota, Derek's finished going completely crazy. Stiles really starts to worry: Derek's completely naked, and… um. Yeah, naked. And, "Is that _bondage gear?_ "

Derek gives Stiles his best 'bitch, please' face. He doesn't even have the decency to shiver. "Just come over here and help me get these fastened. Here, this clip goes on that ring. Now, get in and put the blanket over your lap and the bench."

Stiles does. When he looks up, there is a giant, majestic grey wolf hitched to the sleigh. Stiles' breath catches in his throat, and he gulps. The wolf growls, and turns around, and that's all the warning Stiles gets. 

He's flung against the seat back and the wind whips into his face, making his eyes water. They're flying toward the mountain at an astonishing speed. The snow hisses beneath them as they twist and turn between the boulders and trees up the narrow path, and if Stiles listens hard, he can hear Derek panting with exertion. But Derek doesn't slow down, even as they leave the trees and the dappled moonlight and the path behind and start their ascent toward the shimmering silver light of the moon.

Joy buoys him. Gravity takes its leave; he grips the sides of the sleigh and laughs and laughs. They reach the peak just before midnight.

 

"Derek, this is the best soup in the history of soup."

They're sitting on a large tarp spread out in the lea of a large outcropping. There's barely any wind at the bottom of this scooped out spot. There's nothing visible but sky beyond the walls of their little valley. It's like they're sitting at the bottom of a big, white bowl. The moon hangs down right above them and lights their picnic: two thermos cannisters of lemony lentil soup, still warm, and crusty bread that Derek dunks straight into the soup. There's tea, also still warm.

"Thank you."

They finish eating in silence and pack up the basket. Stiles leans over the edge of the tarp for the fifth time and runs his gloved fingers through the snow. He squeezes a handful together, but it doesn't pack at all. It's almost like fine-grained sand.

"Mom used to call it sugar snow," says Derek.

Stiles looks at him; he's surprised to see Derek smiling, a small, fond thing. He's never seen that smile before, on those rare occasions Derek talks about his past. Something warm settles in his heart.

He's still himself, though, so he whips the handful of snow at Derek's face. "Yeah, but does it _taste_ like sugar?"

He sticks around long enough to see Derek's jaw drop, and then he's off like a shot. Well, as much of a shot as he can make himself. The snow gets deeper the closer he climbs to the edge. He's breathless with laughter when Derek catches up and tackles him face first into the snow. "Stahahahahapit!" He's laughing too hard to even talk. He squirms like mad but only succeeds in turning himself around onto his back under Derek.

"I don't know, Stiles. What do you think. Does it taste like sugar?" Stiles clenches his eyes shut, certain he's about to get a snow bomb in the face. When nothing happens, he cracks and eye open. Derek's got his hand right there, but there's only a small heap of snow on his finger. "Open up."

Stiles, entranced, opens his mouth. Derek tips the snow into it. It's not sweet, of course it's not, but Derek's face is. All sweet and smiles, eyes sparking. Stiles wiggles his hand up from his side and cups Derek's neck. He lifts up, closer and closer to Derek's face.

Derek closes the distance. The fur-lined hoods of their parkas meet and seal out what small breeze manages to blow into the dale. Derek kisses the last of the snow from Stiles' lips.

Some sweet, unmeasured time later they're lying side by side, legs tangled together, eyes glued to the moon. It's about to dip behind the outcropping of rock. They've got the hoods of their parkas pulled back a little so they can see as much of the sky as possible. The moon's so bright, they don't see many stars until the edge of the bowl.

"We used to spend every December moon here," says Derek. "The Christmas moon, we called it. We'd hunt on the way up, stay up all night playing and howling at the moon, then race back down at dawn."

"You never ran into anyone?"

"No. Never."

"It sounds perfect."

Derek find Stiles' hand and squeezes it. "It was."

Stiles squeezes back.

Stiles watches each breath plume up and away, aglow in the air until it dissipates. A gust of wind aloft whips a fine mist of sugar snow off the outcropping above into the moonlight. It drifts down in a sparkling mist and settles on their faces like a benediction. Stiles licks it off his lips and thinks that maybe it tastes just a little bit like magic.

 

"Stiles, we have to go now." 

Stiles wakes to a faint press of Derek's lips on his own. It's noticably darker now, the moon well behind the outcropping. He looks down to find the blanket from the sleigh covering them both. "What time is it?"

"About three. We'll want to go down now to get to the car by sunup."

Stiles stands and stretches, and thinks he ought to be colder than he is. But Derek was under that blanket with him, so maybe that's why he's fine. They trudge back down to the sleigh and pack up the tarp and basket. Derek strips down once again, and Stiles shudders. "I don't know how you can _do_ that."

Derek smirks, and gets into the harness. "All aboard. Don't forget to pull the break if the lines lose tension."

"Aye aye, Captain," he says, and climbs in, tucking the blanket around him. He pulls up his gaiter and hood and zips it all the way. "Mush!"

Derek changes, then digs in with his hind feet, kicking. Stiles barely ducks in time, but he's laughing, open-mouthed and happy, so he gets a mouthful of snow, anyway.

The sleigh kisses the edge of the parking lot just as the sun peeks over the horizon.

 

"Did you boys have a nice Christmas?" asks the Sheriff. He's exhausted, but the moment he sits back in his recliner, Derek hands him a mug of lentil soup. He's just hungry enough to sip it down before heading off to bed. He takes a moment to look at the boys: his boy, a man now, really, and this other young man who's seen too much horror in his young life. They're sitting together on the couch like they've done countless times before, but tonight, they look different. They look… they look _alive_.

Stiles grins. "It was awesome! Derek took me to Mount Shasta. My first white Christmas!" Stiles shoots Derek an almost shy smile.

He narrows his eyes. "You boys didn't--"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Dad, we were safe! We just… played in the snow." The boys trade quick grins.

The Sheriff ruminates on that for a moment or two. Derek's now looking steadfastly at the floor, but he's smiling, so the Sheriff lets it go. It's Christmas, after all, and they get enough trouble as it is. He's pretty sure Derek wouldn't deliberately take his son looking for it.

"So it was good, then?" He needs to know. He hates that he's spent every Christmas since the election away. Hates the tired smile Stiles gives him every year when he walks in the door Christmas night, the grateful, almost desperate hug.

But tonight's smile… It was like before. Before, when Claudia… it was _her_ smile. 

Yes. He was right -- something has changed. He doesn't think Stiles is even aware of it when he grabs Derek's hand.

"Dad, it was better than good. It was _magical_."

 


End file.
